Fake
by Steelfeathers
Summary: "They call me a greasy git. They don't know the half of it." Snape introspective, oneshot.


Fake

…...

I often hear them muttering to each other in the corridors or over bangers and mash in the Great Hall.

_Greasy Git_, they call me. _That Ugly Old Bat._

They lament the sharp sting of my tongue and my thievery of their house points. They wail bitterly over the deluge of detentions I rain down upon them for arriving a minute late, or for mumbling insults under their breath, or for passing notes to one another when they're supposed to be _paying attention_.

The other professors, though they may publically chastise their students for speaking out of turn about me, are not above the childish impulse to ridicule.

_Cruel, sadistic bastard._ Hardly original, Minerva.

_A bit of a stick-in-the-mud._ Your attempts at kindness, Filius, are as pathetic as ever.

_The meanest frump I've ever had the misfortune of working with_. Your sentiments are reciprocated, Sprout.

Even Albus occasionally joins in, though his murmured insights tend towards the forgiving and—dare I say it?—somewhat melancholy. Always those faded blue eyes glance briefly in my direction before he speaks, though what he hopes to convey by that moment of acknowledgement I do not know.

_I'm sure Severus has his reasons_, he always demurs, a vapid little smile concealing the knowing pity lurking in those damnable eyes. _He does the best he can._

As if you didn't know my reasons, Albus. Every excruciating detail of them.

For my part, I would rather he didn't defend me, even if only in a halfhearted manner. (It wouldn't do for him to seem too supportive of Voldemort's spy, now would it?)

I welcome the names, the ridicules, the taunts; the curses and the swearing. They sting, like invisible little cuts scraping the dark area around what's left of my heart. Even after all these years, hearing a voice hiss at me behind my back about how awful I am, about how dirty and evil and utterly repulsive I am, has never failed to draw a spot of blood. Oh how those retched children would laugh if they could see the way I cower away from them in my dreams!

Yet this silent agony—the slow death of a thousand tiny wounds—fills me with dark contentment, momentarily stilling the wretched throes of my soul with the grim, soothing chill of peace.

At times, when I find myself standing before them at the beginning of class—all those faces turned to me, some fearful, some loathing, and a very few (all Slytherins) oozing a smug satisfaction that comes from believing that we share some sort of connection (I have yet to disabuse them of that notion)—the words on my tongue shrivel into ash, and for a moment I find myself simply staring at the children gathered around me.

How powerful one is at 11 years old! Absolutely everything is within reach, and the world operates according to a set of well-defined, _fair_ rules designed around protecting and entertaining the one at its center. Pain is momentary and fleeting. Death is no more than an abstract concept. Light is good and dark is bad, and Dumbledore is second only to the Almighty.

They squabble amongst themselves over petty insults and fleeting passions. Tussles over stolen Rememberalls and midnight duels in the trophy room are legendary events to shake the very foundations of the earth. Mystery and adventure lurk around every corner; the notion of wars and battles are held up as glorious endeavors and looked to with excitement. And no matter what might happen, at the end of the day Dumbledore would always still be there to smile merrily from the head table, and Hogwarts would always open its doors precisely on schedule at the end of August.

The fragile crystal cocooning their little worlds has yet to be shattered.

But if Dark Lord continues to grow in power, as I fear he might, it soon will be.

I thank all the little gods that they do not notice the way my hand trembles when I flick my wand at the board. If they saw, some might perhaps be moved to pity—that Granger girl would, at the very least.

But I do not want their pity; I dread it even more than the foulest of dark arts the Dark Lord could send raining down upon my head.

To pity is to forgive, and I do not deserve to be forgiven. Not when I am forced to Apparte away from the castle night after night, answering the torturous burn of the mark on my arm. I sit at my desk grading essays, dealing out ruthless reprimands with the tip of my quill, knowing all the while what is to come. Then at last, around midnight, I feel the Dark Lord's call. I keep my black cloak and death's-head mask in a locked drawer, beneath stacks of papers written by 11-year olds who spell potions with 's-h-u-n-s', knowing that I will not have time to return to my quarters to retrieve them.

When I arrive, it is always to find myself at a scene of abject desolation—at this stage the Dark Lord is concentrating on creating a looming pall of unease, so most often I find myself apparating onto a manicured suburban lawn. Sometimes the house is still standing. Most of the time it is not.

The other Death Eaters have usually already ferreted out the family of muggles or mudbloods, and I often find them sprawled on their living room floors or in their back yards next to a child's swing set. It's the kitchen floor this time. They plead and beg incoherently, but the Dark Lord's eyes are glittering as he twirls his wand, and I know that he has concocted some new form of torture even more heinous than the last.

I throw up my strongest mental shield as Nott drags out a wide-eyed girl of no more than 12, throwing her at the Dark Lord's feet. A relative of Hannah Abbot, if I remember correctly. Her pink shirt is decorated with delicate white flowers, and her jeans are edged with lace. She has a teddy bear clip in her hair. Her eyes are wide and black, two empty, screaming holes that somehow know what is to come, though her young mind has yet to catch on. I force myself to sneer at her panic.

What would my students think of my now, I wonder, if they could see Professor Snape—the teacher, the test grader, the Greasy Git—lifting his wand on the Dark Lord's command and enchanting a 12-year-old's father with Imperious and telling him to break his daughter's legs.

But it is useless to wonder. They cannot and—God help us—_will not_ ever have to look on while she pleads Daddy, Daddy, what are you doing, Daddy, Daddy stop, all the while squealing at the painful grip around her limbs, before the dead-eyed man who plays with her in the backyard and sings to her at bedtime breaks her right leg and she throws back her head and _screams_.

By the time he finishes with her left leg and moves on her arms, the screams have stopped, though her mouth still hangs open, black eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling like two burnt out coals.

No, these dozens of students glaring up at me do not yet understand. Their faces, twisted with anger at having to scrub cauldrons, grimacing at the thought of taking another exam, transported with glee over the prospect of an upcoming Quidditch game, are so terribly, horribly, _innocent_. Their world is one of sunshine and light, and they would pity me without truly knowing what I have done, believing themselves to be so wonderful and morally superior as to be able to forgive me anything.

But I know better.

The seat usually occupied by Hanah Abbot is empty today. Undoubtably she has already heard the news of the attack on her relatives the night before, and is likely up in Dumbledore's office at this very moment sobbing her heart out. No doubt Albus will refrain from telling her that the man who tortured her cousin just marked her absent on the attendance scroll. Or that her cousin's death was considered a necessary sacrifice to allow me to remain in the Dark Lord's good graces.

I scowl, shout, and take dozens of extra points from anyone who breathes too loudly. The Potter brat looks livid, as usual, and even Draco seems to have turned a delicate shade of green.

_Unmitigated bastard._

_Ugly old freak._

_Greasy git._

My mouth twists into a crooked little smile. There is not a drop of mirth to the expression.

What cold comfort to know that if I am one night summoned to _their_ doors, none will ever be able to accuse me of being a fake.

They call me evil. They whisper that I am the cruelest teacher to have ever stepped through the door.

They don't know that half of it.


End file.
